


Rotten Work

by bacondoughnut



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Dehydration, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Psychological Trauma, Rescue, Sensory Deprivation, Sleep Deprivation, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Touch-Starved, background brightwell if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28808397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Bright's voice is hoarse and cracked, be it from disuse or dehydration. He manages in disbelief just shy of a whisper, "JT?""It's me, buddy."Or; The team manages to recover Bright from white torture. Now they just have to help Bright recover from it.
Comments: 34
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm Bright has been missing for over seventy-two hours. No phone calls, no ransom notes, no leads. Nothing.

They've been down this road with Bright before and always gotten lucky. Gil says it's not luck, it's just Bright. That he's a "smart kid" and they're going to bring him back "safe and sound, you'll see." That he's going to be alright. But for all the trust that JT has in Gil, even the trust that he's learned to have in Bright, he can't totally say he believes it.

Bright has been missing for over seventy-two hours. JT's been a cop too long not to know the odds, they all have. And sooner or later, luck always runs out.

It's the only thing he's been able to think about for the past three days. And he's got a feeling it's the only thing running through all their minds when they get the call about a probable location.

They have to coordinate with a SWAT team, and it's been a long time since he's gone into danger behind someone else instead of in front, but he'll take it. He'll take it if it means he can be on scene when they move. Because he knows the odds, but he'll be damned if he's not going to be there when they find Bright, whatever that entails.

The scene is misleadingly mundane, from the outside at least.

A disused old mechanic's workshop on the wrong side of the tracks, the sort with thick walls and limited foot traffic. It seems almost abandoned at first glance, much like the neighboring buildings, but the errand boy carrying bags of takeout for at least six seems to imply otherwise.

He shouldn't technically have even been working this case--their cases dealing with organized crime don't usually call for a profiler. But Bright was bored. Ain't that just the way it goes? Now he's in god knows what kind of trouble, and they just have to hope they're here in time to bail him out.

"Eight armed suspects that we know of," the SWAT sergeant fills them in from a distance down the road. "Our A team will breach from the back door, B team goes in the front. Lieutenant Arroyo, you and your guys are with B team. We've got a bus on standby, if your guy is in there, priority number one is getting him out as quick as possible."

"I want everyone to stay close, and stay focused," Gil says, giving pointed looks to both Dani and JT. "If we're gonna do this, we have to keep our heads on straight. Everyone clear on that?"

"You got it, boss," Dani says with a small nod.

JT mirrors the expression, gaze drifting past Gil's shoulders towards the building. "What she said."

"Alright," Gil says. "Let's go get our boy."

From the inside, the scene seems infinitely less mundane.

JT runs inside the workshop behind cries of "Clear!" and "Give me two!" and the distant holler of gunfire from where the A team would have breached. They catch sight of one suspect sneaking around back one of the project cars an instant before he gets his first shot off. Another throws a tool box into one of the SWAT guy's chests and tries to make a run for it.

Since the exit door is blocked, the chase leads them down the stairs and into the basement, where things aren't all that much calmer. There's a blur between one of the officers setting off a flashbang, and the suspect landing a bullet in the wall about half an inch above JT's head. Dani beckons him over to cover behind a tool bench.

There's more yelling. Instructions that the suspects drop their weapons gone ignored. At least things start to sound quieter upstairs.

When the chaos eventually quiets and all eight of their suspects are accounted for, Dani paces back and forth along the basement floor and points out the obvious. "Bright isn't here."

"No," JT says, despite all evidence that she's right. "No, he has to be here. Someplace."

The alternative is unthinkable, damn the odds.

They scour the basement a second time over, checking inside of storage lockers and a beat up old trunk. Anywhere a guy as scrawny as Bright could feasibly fit, and even a few places smaller. All they find is proof this basement is the stuff of nightmares--rusted chains in a heap on one of the shelves, next to a drill and a hammer and other, not nearly as innocuous as they seem, tools.

The blood stains in the corner are too old to belong to Bright, but the dress shoes and suit jacket at the bottom of a dented up locker are enough to know he's at least been here. That's the best they can get. Until Gil comes downstairs with one of their suspects, hands cuffed behind his back, in tow.

"Where is he?" Gil asks.

"Gil, he's not down here," Dani reports with a slight shake of her head.

"He's down here," Gil says firmly. As if he can reorder reality just by telling it to change with the proper authority. Hell, once or twice JT's been willing to believe that Gil actually can. "Where is he, Roger?"

The suspect, Roger apparently, gives a heavy sigh. One part reluctant, two parts anxious. From what they know of the crew he runs with, it's equally likely he's as nervous for the consequences of what he did as he is the consequences of telling them about it. But he nods towards a storage locker. The one JT already checked inside of.

"He wouldn't stop talking," Roger says, rolling his eyes. And yep, that definitely sounds like Bright. "So the boss said to put him in there 'till he was ready to tell us what we wanted."

"We checked the locker," JT says.

"Check behind it."

He frowns at that, but turns his attention back to the locker. Empty as it is, it doesn't take much effort to push it out of alignment with the wall. With the locker gone, the seam in the drywall suddenly becomes obvious. A single spin-dial lock sits in place to hold it shut. JT gets the combination from Roger and only fumbles the numbers once before he's able to tear the lock away.

The room it leads into isn't even a room at all. Three feet tall, three feet wide, and at best three feet deep.

Jesus. They're keeping Bright in the world's worst coffin.

His hands are pulled behind his back, no doubt restrained there somehow. Knees crammed up against his chest. A thick blindfold is wrapped securely around Bright's eyes, accompanied by a pair of noise cancelling headphones, and a gas mask. No sight, no sound, no smell. And god, JT knows they were trying to hurt him, but even they can't have known the extent of their doing. That locking Bright alone with himself is probably the worst torture they could ever hope to subject him to.

He's distantly aware of Gil shouting up the stairs behind him, "I need some medics down here! Now!"

And Dani's gasp of, "Oh my god."

"Fuck, man." JT hasn't seen anything like this since he was overseas. Somehow it's even scarier on home ground.

He's got half a mind to turn around right now and let Roger know exactly what kind of a piece of shit even being part of this makes him, and not in as many words. The fact that he doesn't has less to do with him being a better man than that, and a lot more to do with Bright, who's got at least enough sense to tell somehow that the door is open. Who seems to be doing his best to shrink back against the wall behind him, as if there were ever any room to move back or any direction at all.

For all he knows, they're only opening this door to kill him.

Without any way to let Bright know who he is until he's gotten him out, JT doesn't anticipate this going well. He lightly taps the toe of Bright's left sock, to give some semblance of warning what he intends to do. He probably should've seen the kick to the jaw it earns him coming.

"He's kinda scrappy for a profiler, isn't he," Roger says, almost entertained. The bastard.

"Get him out of here," Dani says, somehow managing to convey all the fire burning in JT's chest over this with that one simple directive. 

And someone must listen, because it's the last he hears anything from Roger.

"I know you can't hear me," JT says, turning back to Bright and his box. "But I'm sorry about this."

With that, he reaches inside and hauls Bright out by the collar of his shirt.

Bright doesn't exactly make it easy, but when does he ever? Even still, it's not much of a fight. It's hard to take on any opponent while deprived of your senses, and anyway, the poor kid doesn't possess any more strength right now than that of his convictions.

He must know it, too, because once the initial get away effort is spent Bright goes still. Head tilted to the side, like he's hoping to pick up just a hint of something, anything not beleaguered by the headphones. JT steps closer once more, and Bright doesn't flinch until he's already fumbling with the clasp around back of the gas mask. It's put on over the headphones, which is probably the only reason they stayed on in the scuffle to begin with.

JT's barely undone the clasp before Bright's tugging his head back, pulling impatiently away from the mask. The headphones come away next.

In the meantime, Gil appears on the ground behind him to work on freeing his hands. Dani's at his shoulder, passing him a pocket knife. The zip-ties keeping Bright's wrists behind his back are stained with splotches of blood, both dried and not. A lot of it. Cutting through the ties might not even be the hardest part of removing them. It's far from surprising from the guy who broke his own thumb to escape a set of handcuffs before, but it's not exactly comforting either.

They should've found him sooner.

The hand at his elbow startles Bright enough that he jerks forward, where he bumps into JT's shoulder before sitting up ramrod straight with a panicked whine. "It's just me, Bright. We got you, you're safe."

A reassurance that might be more effective if half of it wasn't said while the foam earplugs were still nestled in place. Something must make it through, because he calms down long enough for JT to get them out.

"Hear me now?" JT asks.

Bright's voice is hoarse and cracked, be it from disuse or dehydration. He manages in disbelief just shy of a whisper, "JT?"

"It's me, buddy."

His shoulders sag forward in an imitation of relief. He's at least stilled enough for Gil to safely renew his effort to cut through the zip-ties. When he does, Bright breaths out sharply through his nose, head jerking to the side like a spooked horse. He's grabbing loosely at the words, but he gets by with a simple, "Who...?"

"That's just Gil," JT tells him. Bright cringes a little less when he keeps his voice low, so he keeps his tone gentle while he reaches around to undo the blindfold, saying, "Dani's here, too."

The sound he makes falls somewhere between a pained whimper and a sigh of relief.

The instant his hands are loose, Bright reaches impatiently up to paw at the blindfold. It's tied too tightly to just slip easily off, but JT pulls it away as soon as the knot is loosened enough. It's been gone all of about half a second before Bright's eyes are screwed shut against the light, and he's burying his cheek in his own shoulder as if that can shield him from the world.

"Too much," he says, bringing the heels of his palms up to press into his eyes.

"It's okay."

Bright just whimpers. He moves as if to stand up, and Dani tells him to slow down at the same time she comes around to help him, but he doesn't even get one foot beneath him before he wobbles.

When he vomits, there's nothing for his stomach to cough up but bile. That doesn't stop him from retching until the yellow and green strands of goop are splattered all across the basement concrete. It's on his hands and smeared down his chin, and god, this is exactly like the desert except that he doesn't smell like partially digested field rations afterwards. Gil's hand traces reassuring circles across Bright's shoulders all throughout, in a cruel parody of what JT imagines him doing when the kid was even smaller, sick with the flu or whatever kids get.

He flinches away when Gil first reaches out. Gives in after a murmured, "I've got you, kid."

"He's dehydrated," says a paramedic. And when did they get down here?

Almost as a confirmation, Bright dry-heaves once more, and then the noise recedes into a helpless whine.

"Get a fluids run up ready to go on the bus," a second one says into her radio. Then, nodding across to her partner, "Okay, let's get him out of here."

Bright lets one of the paramedics help haul him upright, but he drags his feet when they start actually trying to usher him towards the door. He opens his eyes tentatively before squeezing them shut again, albeit this time not as tight. The light's going to take some more time to adjust to, but it's not the inability to see where he's going that's stopping him.

The paramedic tries again and he digs his heels in.

"Not...I don't want to go alone," Bright says weakly. He cracks his eyes open long enough to look her in the face, adding, "Please."

She glances back over her shoulder, deferring to Gil. "Can you spare someone?"

"I'll go," Dani says, before JT gets the chance, stepping up to his side.

She takes his bloody, vomit specked hand in her own without a second's hesitation. Offering a light squeeze, giving something tactile to her presence. Or maybe it's a silent communication between them in a code JT's not privy to. Some of the torment written all across Bright's expression seems to soften, just a little. The medic is the one holding him up, but it's Dani he leans towards.

"Stay with him," Gil says without needing to, sounding an awful lot like he would rather go himself. JT knows the feeling. Offering an encouraging nod, he adds, "We'll catch up at the hospital."

With that settled, Bright stops fighting the EMTs. But it's not until Dani drops his hand in favor of throwing his arm across her shoulders that he gives into that exhaustion that's got to be all but consuming him, letting out a ragged breath and breathing the rest of his fight out with it.

JT's battling an urge to follow after them their entire path up the stairs.

"He's gonna be okay," Gil says once they've gone, sounding just as much like he's trying to reassure himself as he is JT. "He's a tough kid."

Thing is, he shouldn't have to be.

"I know," JT says, and it feels like a half truth.

* * *

This hospital has to feel like a second hell after coming out of that box. Bright goes from pitch dark and encompassing silence to fluorescent white lights and beeping monitors, isolation to armies of nurses and doctors and orderlies, in no more than an hour. It's no wonder JT arrives at the hospital to find he's been arguing, however fatigued, with the doctors.

The doctor catches Gil and JT up in the hallway.

They've got him hooked up to an I.V to replenish fluids. They found needle-marks in the crook of Bright's elbow; he was drugged to help keep him awake in the box, just another layer to the night to make JT's skin crawl. The drug doesn't mix well with sedatives, which means if they want to calm Bright down it won't be chemically. He hasn't been talking to anyone but Dani, and even her just barely.

"We didn't find any major injury," the doctor says. It's a weak consolation prize when Bright's hurt anyway. "But we'd like to keep him overnight for observation. He hasn't been all together approving of that idea."

JT glances through the slats of the blinds into Bright's room.

He's sitting in bed in almost the same position he was sitting in the box, except that now his face rests on his knees, arms folded protectively over his head. Caught in between the asthenia of everything he's been put through and the overwhelming effects of the fact he's still going through it. The doctors just can't see it that way.

Only half the lights in the room are switched on. Dani sits in the chair at his bedside, a quiet but persistent presence.

"He wants to go home," Gil says, one part question and one part understanding.

"We can't advise sending him home," the doctor says clinically. "Certainly not alone, as he requested."

JT's gaze drifts against his better judgment back through the window. He looks at Bright, curled into a ball and apparently paralyzed that way. And it's still JT's job to protect him, no matter how spectacularly he's failed in that so far. He volunteers, "What if somebody stayed with him?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the story title is taken from that one quote from anne carson's 'euripides' you probably know the one.
> 
> alternatively titled "jt takes care of malcolm 2, electric boogaloo"


	2. Chapter 2

It takes the powerful and slightly terrifying influence of Bright's mom, but the doctors agree to release him as long as he's got someone to supervise him for the next twenty-four hours, in case of any complications. Despite the surplus of willing volunteers, JT somehow manages to make that someone himself.

They make the drive back to Bright's place in almost complete silence, apart from the gentle hum of the car heater. JT more or less carries him up the stairs, one scrawny arm thrown across his shoulders. Quiet or not, Bright actively leaning on him is still worlds away from the start of the night, where he was flinching away from every little touch. JT flicks the light on without thinking, on autopilot, and Bright's forehead finds JT's shoulder with a groan that sounds more exasperated than anything else.

"Right, sorry," JT mutters, reaching behind him to switch the light back off.

"Thank you," Bright says, voice faintly muffled by the canvas of JT's jacket. It carries the weight of more than just the easy flipping of a single light-switch.

JT doesn't want a thank you. He hasn't done much in the way of earning gratitude, as far as he can see.

"Don't thank me yet," he says, guiding Bright away from the front door. Then, "We're gonna have to turn those lights on eventually."

He can't very well hide in the dark forever, however much he might want to right now. Besides, there'll be no getting out of that box he was locked in if he chooses to stay inside it.

"Not tonight," Bright says. "I'm too tired."

The statement is quiet, but it's not a quiet born from exhaustion or Bright's broken voice. It's just quiet.

JT nods. "Alright."

He starts to lead Bright over to bed. About halfway across the floor, Bright withdraws his arm back to himself, insisting on walking the rest of the steps on his own despite how heavily he's been leaning on JT. It's far too late for it to be an attempt to save face, more likely he's just relieved to have the opportunity to walk at all.

The polite thing to do, then, would be not to comment on the way he wobbles like a driver about to spectacularly bomb a roadside field sobriety test. No one ever accused JT of being polite. "You good, bro?"

"My depth perception isn't..." Bright explains self-consciously. "It's...off."

Clearly. He trips over nothing about half a foot away from his bed and collapses face first onto the mattress. But the effort it seems to take to drag the rest of his limbs off of the floor says he's struggling with more than just depth perception.

JT sighs and steps forward to help Bright out of his shoes. He forgets to say anything when he does, but Bright doesn't flinch at the unexpected touch, he just freezes.

And JT's still wondering if that's an improvement when the car alarm goes off.

It's distant, and such a standard noise in the city, and Bright recoils with a miserable whine. He scrambles up into a sitting position, hands clamped over his ears, and takes in one frantic breath after another. JT tries to get his attention to calm him down somehow and Bright's aware enough of the effort to shake his head before he curls in on himself, pressing his palms tighter against the side of his head.

Bright's still hyperventilating when the alarm finally quiets. He doesn't react to any of JT's reassurances beyond occasionally shaking his head, and one or two repetitions of the word, "No."

"Hey, man, look at me," JT tries again, shuffling closer. "It's just a noise."

That's a lame attempt at comfort, more reductive than it is helpful. Not that Bright looks like he's listening anyway. So with that in mind, JT changes tracks.

He thinks twice before following through, raising his own hands to rest over top of Bright's, and it's enough to get the kid to open his eyes at least. Actually they snap open, dazed and afraid, and wherever Bright is when his eyes are closed, it isn't here. He holds his breath and sits frozen, as if he expects that the hands at the side of his face are there to snap his neck, and then his eyes refocus on JT's.

JT takes in a slow, measured breath and holds it a second before letting it back out. He has to do it three times before Bright gets the message, letting go of the breath he's holding onto.

They keep up the process until Bright's breathing slips back into a more quotidian rhythm, some of the tension he carries ebbing away with every exhale. When his shoulders go slack JT offers a small nod and draws his hands back.

He asks, already knowing the answer, "You okay?"

"Better," Bright says softly. Which is to say that he's not, not really.

"Good. Sit tight, I'm gonna grab you some water," JT says, rising back to his feet. Bright murmurs something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like dismissal, so he adds pointedly, "Doc said to keep you hydrated."

The argument ends there, and so does the conversation.

JT ducks into the kitchen and checks around the cupboards for a glass. He glances back over at Bright while he grabs one down, staring vacantly at a spot on the wall across the room. Gone again, back to wherever it is that he goes when he shuts his eyes.

He clears his throat as he switches the tap on to fill the glass. Waits for Bright to blink and look over before saying, "Still with me?"

"I'm with you," Bright answers dully, turning back to the wall.

JT switches the tap back off, pacing over to the bedside to pass the water glass along. He's standing there holding the glass out for a few seconds too long before Bright stirs to acknowledge it. With a skeptical hum, JT concedes, "Sure you are."

"I am," he insists without conviction, scrubbing a hand down his face and reaching out to accept the water. He drinks a couple of sips to appease JT, then sets the glass aside on a nightstand. "Thank you."

"Sure, man," JT says, as if this is just about the water. It's the only gratitude he can bring himself to accept.

"JT," Bright says, sitting up more attentively. It's the firmest he's said anything all night when he repeats, insistently, "Thank you."

The perceptive bastard.

"It's no problem," he answers dismissively. Actually it's stressful as hell, but that's not Bright's doing. And anyway, it's Bright's hell, not his. All JT's really doing is walking through the fire at his side, he's done nothing to prevent Bright getting burnt. He gestures lamely towards the other room and says, "I'm gonna go feed your bird now."

Bright starts to get up. "I'll do it. She'll only eat the from top layer, you gotta-"

"-Clear out the empty hulls, I know," JT says, placing a gentle hand at Bright's shoulders to nudge him back to bed. In answer to the confused expression he gives him, JT shrugs and adds, "Me and Dani took turns feeding her while you were gone."

For just over three days. They sat on their asses and fed a parakeet while Bright was in hell.

And somehow he's still saying, "Oh. Thank you."

JT rolls his eyes. "Don't mention it."

Bright nod, settling wordlessly back against the wall. He tilts his head back, shuts his eyes. But he doesn't show any signs he plans on actually going to sleep any time soon. Whatever bullshit drug they gave him in that box must still be screwing with his head--not that he's ever needed help staying awake before. He just seems far too drained to still be up for any other reason.

While he's busy tossing the empty seed hulls from the top of the bird's food bowl into the trash, JT asks with feigned disinterest, "You planning on going to sleep anytime soon?"

His expression is difficult to read when he won't let JT turn any lights on, but it seems almost like he's been caught doing something he's not supposed to when he looks away.

"I can't."

It's only then that JT realizes it's not because of the drugs. Sunshine chirps impatiently.

"You're not gonna wake up back there," JT says.

Bright sighs, worn out and resigned. Answers with a mild, "You don't know that."

Of course he does. But JT knowing what's real and what's not doesn't actually do anything to help Bright's interpretation of it. He doesn't know what would, he's not the psychologist. He does know, "I'm not going anywhere, man. Promise."

There's a flicker of recognition in the way Bright turns back to him, but he stays quiet the rest of the time JT's feeding the bird.

He knows better than to ask, but he has to wonder how long Bright was in that box. If it was the whole time, or just the last day. Something in between. As it turns out, there's no amount of time that doesn't make JT's blood boil just to think of it. Doing that to anyone is cruel. Unspeakably so. It's one of those things people do that makes JT wonder if he's not trying to protect something that can't be saved when he goes to work everyday. It's sadistic. But doing that to _Bright?_

There's a faint hum from across the room that pulls JT out of his thoughts.

"You've seen this before," Bright says quizzically. "In the military?"

"Yeah. Once." And he doesn't want to talk about it, but this is good. Get Bright profiling. Get him out of his own head, even if it does mean letting him in to JT's.

Only Bright doesn't pry beyond that. He accepts the confirmation with a small, sad sort of sigh, and lets the conversation drop.

"Get some sleep, bro," JT says. "I'll be here when you wake up, promise."

Bright levels him with a skeptical look, but he must accept it, however warily, to be true. He gives a small nod and shifts to slide his cuffs over his wrists, murmuring irresolutely, "Okay."

"Okay."

* * *

In a universe that's fair, Bright's torture would be over after he was rescued. The fates would see how much he's already had to endure and grant him at least one night off before letting him suffer anything else. But the universe isn't fair, and their night was never going to end with JT talking Bright into going to sleep. Things don't get to be that easy.

JT wakes up before the yelling starts.

Bright mumbles something adjacent to words in his sleep, tossing in bed in a way that knocks the forgotten empty water glass off of the nightstand. JT climbs up off his place on the couch and steps forward before realizing he doesn't know what to do to fix this, and that's when the yelling starts.

The blankets are thrown half off the bed before Bright jolts up like he's been shocked, and the only thing that seems to be keeping him from a full on sprint out of the room is the cuffs tugging at his wrists. JT doesn't have enough faith in them to trust things won't go south with the broken glass on the floor right next to him. He rushes forward, hoping he can get Bright to hear him somehow when he says, "Bright, you gotta wake up, man. Hey, it's a dream."

Bright's shoulders tense. He doesn't wake up, or at least, JT doesn't think that he does. But he does shake his head and insist frantically, "I'm not going back in there. I'm not going..."

"You're not," JT agrees placatingly, inching closer. "It's okay."

"Stay away from me," Bright hisses, scrambling back against the headboard.

JT freezes, palms front in a gesture of surrender. Bright moves back quick enough that the back of his head smacks into the wall with a resounding crack anyway, and that's what wakes him up.

None of the terror in Bright's posture shows any signs of leaving any time soon, but it does fade to something less urgent. He sits up a little straighter, head tilted to the side, like when he was back at the scene and desperate to hear something past the silence of the headphones. The apartment is unforgivingly quiet.

He slips his thumb under the leather of one of the cuffs, finding the bandage taped over where the zip-ties cut into his wrists. At first it just seems like passive curiosity. Then the frown deepens and he presses down harder. Cries out against the pain of it, but he only seems to tighten his grip instead of withdrawing it.

"Hey, stop that," JT says, a little sharper than he intends, and Bright flinches. He regulates his voice to something a little softer to add, "What are you doing?"

"It's real," Bright mutters under his breath.

Whether that's meant as an explanation or some sort of self reassurance isn't totally clear. It doesn't matter. The pain must be the realest thing his brain can accept right now, because he steels himself with a deep breath and does it again. This time all he does is grimace.

There's got to be a better way to solidify that he's here and not there.

"It's real," JT echoes firmly, stepping forward to pull Bright's hand away from his wrist.

Bright looks up sharply, as if only just now becoming aware there's another presence in the room. He blinks once, then twice. Disbelief written across his face. He says just above a whisper, "JT? You're here?"

"I'm here," he confirms. "Just like I promised."

"Thing about hallucinations," Bright says, even as his shoulders drop. "They don't have to keep their promises."

JT could try telling him he's not a hallucination, except that for all he knows that's something a hallucination would say. Besides, going by the way Bright's hand has twisted around to grab onto JT's forearm, tactility is more convincing than an unreliable word.

He kicks some broken glass out of the way with the toe of his shoe and sits down at the edge of the mattress. Claps his free hand over Bright's shoulder pointedly, looking him in the eyes to confirm, "Good thing this isn't a hallucination, then."

Bright shuts his eyes again, taking in a breath shakier than his hand. When he lets it back out he says, "I thought..."

Whatever he thought, it's enough that his voice breaks before he can say it. Screw it. JT huffs and pulls Bright into a hug.

For an instant he thinks it's the wrong decision. Bright freezes, muscles going rigid and tense, unbelieving or just uncomfortable. He only has about a half second to rethink it, though, before Bright does a one eighty and grabs him right back. Hands fisted into the fabric of JT's shirt as if he might fade away if one of them let's go.

It's a long moment before Bright's breath evens back out. A longer one still before he speaks up.

His voice is quieted indistinctly by the shoulder of JT's t-shirt when he says anything, but that's not the only reason the words are difficult to hear. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" JT says incredulously.

Bright doesn't reply beyond letting go. He sits back against the headboard and clears his throat, muttering, "I'm fine. I'll, uh...I'll try not to wake you up again."

"Don't worry about it." As if it were really that simple.

He cleans up the broken glass before retreating back to the couch.

Maybe there's something in the walls. JT finds that he can't sleep very well in this place, either.

For the better part of the next few hours he listens to the bird's occasional trill and the gentle lullaby of the city going on outside. And, hovering somewhere on the bleak edge of sleep and consciousness, he thinks about the glass shattering on the floor. He thinks about gravity, and resilience, and wonders at how many times and how far a thing can fall before it finally breaks.

* * *

It's around mid-noon the next time Bright actually wakes up.

Actually being the operative word. JT talks him back to sleep at least three times between then and now, although he doubts how many of the conversations Bright's going to remember very well. He asks for Gil one of those times, and JT's about to call him to haul his own down here even despite the oddness of the hour (Gil wouldn't mind anyway, it's Bright) but in the end he doesn't have to. Bright's still dreaming when he asks. He calls out to Dani and JT next.

By mid-morning Bright's nightmares seem to have quieted. Which leaves him at least three or four hours of some restful sleep. Mrs. Whitly calls JT's personal cell, to which he doesn't remember giving her the number, to check in. Gil calls a few minutes later. Ainsley texts. Edrisa texts to ask if she can call. Dani swings by in person and drops off a thermos of chicken soup.

JT spends three minutes having a whispered argument with the stupid bird when her chirping looks like it's about to disturb Bright before he realizes she's just out of water.

Bright seems far from rested when he wakes, but he doesn't seem nearly as fatigued as last night, and with this kid JT's learned to take wins where he can get them.

When Bright doesn't wake up screaming, he's pretty slow to wake. It takes him a full five minutes to move past the sitting up in bed step. He winces at the daylight streaking through the windows like it's a particularly nasty hangover he's suffering from, and not the aftereffects of sensory deprivation. Scrubs a hand down his face before finally swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Remembering his difficulty walking last night, JT readies himself to get off his place on the couch and help. But Bright stumbles over to the kitchen island just fine, if a little zombie-like.

He grabs a card out of that weird little box he keeps on the counter, but instead of reading it he simply drops his head to rest in his arms.

"How're you feeling?" JT asks.

In response, Bright gives a muffled, burnt out groan.

JT paces into the kitchen, discarding the book he'd absently picked up to kill time onto the kitchen counter as he passes by on his way to the cupboards. He fills up a fresh glass of water at the sink and slides it across the counter, instructing, "Drink something, it'll help."

"Oh, I can't be helped," Bright says, like he intends for it to land as an easy joke. Nothing more then casual, self-deprecating humor. Instead it just comes across as sad.

"That's not true," JT answers resolutely. "Drink."

Bright accepts the glass without any more argument, sitting up a little more wakefully. He drinks the first half like a man lost in the desert, then sets the glass down and pushes it away like it's offensive somehow. Mumbles, almost conversationally, "I never realized how loud the city is."

JT frowns.

He's only aware of the cars and the people passing by on the street below when he really listens for them. There's probably a plane passing by overhead somewhere. There'll be an ambulance or police siren wailing in the distance sometime soon. It's white noise, but that's a lot sharper when put in contrast with an impenetrable dark.

Quiet as it's said, the remark feels closer to an observation than a complaint. And JT's not the profiler, so he's just going to ask, "That's bad, right?"

"It's..." Bright starts, trailing off mid-sentence. After a moment he sighs, somewhat defeatedly, and admits, "A little overwhelming, but that's not the city's fault."

JT gets the impression it needs to be said, "Not yours, either."

Bright hums. An acknowledgment, not an agreement. Then he changes the subject, eyes lighting on the book JT left on the counter. Pulling it closer, he asks skeptically, "You're reading about mood disorders?"

"I'm tryna replace you as the team nerd," JT says flatly. "I got bored."

A slight frown tugs at the corners of Bright's brow. As if it's his fault that JT got bored. As if it would matter if it were, when JT's passing boredom is put in the same room as everything Bright's been through in the past three days alone.

"Thank you, for being here," Bright says, fidgeting absently with the corner of one of the pages in the book. "I know I didn't make it easy."

Actually, when it comes to Malcolm Bright, being there is the easiest thing in the world.

But JT has to ask, because he has to know, "That what you were apologizing for before?"

If the way Bright's hands still where they've been flipping the book cover open and closed is any indication, it's not. Or there's more to it than that. Either way, he recovers after a second, picking up his fidgeting once more. Saying, "Would you believe me if I said I don't remember apologizing for anything?"

"Not if you ask like that first," JT scoffs.

There's a beat of silence. Then another.

JT gives him the time. He's in no hurry to be anywhere else, and it's not really himself that he's asking for anyway. Bright carries guilt around like a beast of burden, and one day he's going to take on a load that's just a little too heavy, and everything's going to come tumbling down. Maybe that's inevitable. But JT can help make that day as far off as possible, help carry something.

He's only half expecting for the silence tactic to work.

Quiet works when interrogating suspects, or questioning reluctant witnesses, because people don't like silence. They want to fill it. Bright's been flip-flopping since they found him between seeking silence and abhorring it.

It must be the latter for the moment, because Bright finally pushes the book away and says, "I would've given them what they wanted."

JT blinks. "What're you talking about?"

Bright looks down at his hands, and JT's follows his gaze, right down to the brownish red stain standing stark against the white of the bandage on his left wrist. He's not sure what the kid's thinking when that troubled look in his eye deepens. The one thing he is sure of is that he's seen far too much of Bright's blood.

"I would've answered their questions. Actually, I wanted to," Bright says. "I didn't care that telling them what they wanted to know would hurt people, not if it meant I could get out."

"You mean you think you would've," JT corrects.

He wasn't, as far as JT knows, ever given the chance after they locked him in that box. There's no telling what he would've done if they hadn't found him. And JT, for one, is more than happy not thinking about the reality where that happens.

Bright shrugs, as if conceding that he can't know for sure. Somehow, the discussion isn't over there.

"I didn't think anyone was coming," he says hollowly, eyes fixed unseeing on a spot on the wall across the kitchen.

"We did solve a crime or two before you came around, y'know." It's meant as a joke, to draw Bright back from wherever he's slipping away to. It doesn't seem to work.

"Not like that," Bright says dismissively. "It just...it felt like a lot longer than two days."

"Two days," JT repeats under his breath. Fleetingly, he thinks it might be his turn to throw up.

He didn't think finding out how long they had Bright in there would be very helpful, and at least he can say he was right. It's the only upside. Two whole days. It means the box wasn't their first resort to getting the information out of him, first of all. He knows the doc didn't find any injuries besides the cuts from the zip-ties, but he can't picture those men asking politely either.

"Maybe two and half," Bright says, chewing his bottom lip. "Time sort of got away from me."

"Jesus."

It's only at JT's horrified reaction that Bright seems to remember he's sitting in his kitchen, talking to someone else. He gives his head an abrupt shake, bringing himself back to reality, and amends with faux optimism, "In certain circumstances, sensory deprivation can actually be used as a form of therapy. It can promote relaxation, and improve focus. So as far as torture methods go, it's kind of lazy."

Tally owned a cat when she and JT first got together. Applesauce. When Applesauce got sick, they had to put her in a cat carrier to get her to the vet. If there's one thing he took away from the experience, it's that someone climbing into a box of their own volition, and being forced into a box against their will, are two very different experiences.

"C'mon, man, don't give me that crap."

"It's not crap," Bright argues weakly, looking away.

"It sure as hell wasn't therapeutic."

He shrugs, like he can't actually bring himself to argue with that, even if he wants to. Then, reaching for the water glass once more but making no move to actually drink from it, "In situations like that, a profiler's best weapon is his word. And observation."

Not too long ago, JT might've found that statement ridiculous. He's seen terrible people do terrible things, time and time again. He sees something like the group of guys who could lock Bright up to rot in that box, alone and afraid, and the notion that a person like that could be talked out of their monstrosity seems unbelievable.

He's also seen Bright talk more than a few men like that out of murder. It's almost a superpower, not bad for the team nerd.

"Social dynamics, and different temperaments, and existing conflict in the group can be used, if not to talk yourself out, at least to stay alive longer. Watch and observe," Bright explains, uncharacteristically subdued for a Bright-Psychology-Lecture. "That's all I do."

He realizes when Bright glances back up at him what this is really about, and it's not teaching JT how a profiler's brain works. Bright's first and only line of defense was as simple as that, watch and observe. And they took that away from him.

"That's not all you do."

"It's not?"

"Nah, you're more stubborn than that," JT says, with false ease. "You survive. You get out, every time."

Bright's shoulders slump in defeat before he says, "I'm still not convinced I'm out."

The words are halfway formed to ask how he wouldn't know this is real when he remembers; Bright's dreams can be pretty vivid. He can only imagine the same to be true for hallucinations.

"You will be," JT says, which he can only hope is encouraging. "And you're stuck with me until you are."

"Is that meant as a bonus or incentive?"

Tough to tell whether that's playful banter or legitimate curiosity. JT shrugs. "Take it however you want. Just means I'm not going anywhere."

When Bright accepts that with the slightest of nods, it almost seems like he believes him. Like JT said, he's got to take the wins where he can get them. 

He lets a passive quiet fill the air of the apartment and takes out his phone to text out the update that Bright's awake. When that's done, JT tackles getting Bright to eat something. A task which proves easier than it's ever been before, but then, aside from whatever they gave him back at the hospital, Bright hasn't eaten anything in at least seventy-two hours.

Good thing Dani brought soup.

It takes a minute to heat it up on the stovetop, and then JT sits Bright down on the couch with a bowl in front of him, and settles down on the armchair nearby.

When the quiet seems to start to become a bit too much, JT talks calmly about Tally and Applesauce, and as time goes on Bright settles more and more comfortably into the cushions. He flinches a little when JT's phone goes off, and progress starts over from square one, but JT sets his phone to vibrate and thinks of a question to ask about something he read in the book he was flipping through. Lets Bright explain how the brain works for a little while. He's in this for the long haul.

"Hey, JT?" Bright says, looking up after the quiet's taken over for another stretch of time.

It sounds important. JT sets the latest text from Bright's mom aside and answers, "Yeah?"

"Thank you, for everything."

"Don't mention it."


End file.
